


All The Words

by claro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of angst, Fluff, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26585869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: Mycroft has never told Greg that he loves him. But that doesn't mean that he doesn't feel it.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 13
Kudos: 174





	All The Words

‘You’re such a fucking arsehole sometimes! Fucking Iceman! They were spot on with that one!’ Greg kicked out at the chair, sending it skittering across the kitchen floor, ‘Eight years, Mycroft! Eight fucking years and never once have you told me you love me. Not once. Not even when we got married. At the start it was funny, and then embarrassing pouring my heart out to you while you said nothing. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t….’ Greg ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders sagging, ‘I deserve more,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll stay with Sal until I find somewhere else.’

Mycroft didn’t stop him as Greg climbed the stairs.

#

Greg wasn’t even paying attention to what he was packing, he was just throwing clothes into his bag, but he paused when he heard Mycroft come into the room behind him. Without a word Mycroft reached his side and set three leather bound journals on the bed on top of Greg’s pyjamas.

‘Read them,’ he said quietly, ‘Before you leave.’

‘I’m not going to read your fucking diary, Myc!’ Greg had never read Mycroft’s diaries, even though the other man frequently left them unattended around the house. It had been a sign of trust that Mycroft left them, knowing that Greg wouldn’t look at them. To be handed them now made Greg uncomfortable.

‘Please,’ Mycroft said, his hand ghosting across Greg’s back, and then he was gone again.

Greg stared down at the brown leather and sighed, then he picked up the one on top and opened it.

#

_‘Lestrade is not the idiot Sherlock likes to make out. He declined all offers of a bribe but did insist I pay for his cab home. He is not what I expected.’_

#

_‘Lestrade found Sherlock. He is refusing to leave the hospital. He’s sleeping in the chair beside me. His wife has no called to find out where he is. She is cheating on him. I suspect he is aware.’_

#

Greg took a deep breath to steady himself. He remembered that night well. Sherlock’s overdose, Mycroft quiet and pale beside him. They barely spoke a dozen words the whole night. Of course he’d know that Caroline was cheating, even then, when he wouldn’t admit it to himself. He knew. But there was something humiliating about Mycroft knowing then, long before Sherlock had outed him and back when Greg was still pretending. He almost closed the journal, but the next entry caught his eye.

#

_‘I find myself growing more enamoured with the detective inspector as time passes. He is handsome, yes, but he is also intelligent and kind. He burns with a righteous indignation I have not witnesses in another for many years. I suspect he would try to fix he universe if one gave him enough Sellotape. I am safe in my admiration, the inspector is devoted to his marriage and even if he were not, he would not be interested in myself, so I can indulge in my fantasies knowing there is no chance of them ever coming to fruition.’_

#

Greg skimmed through entries about work, travel and Sherlock until he once again spotted his name. The entry was dated early November.

#

_‘Gregory has left his wife. This is the worst thing that could happen for my own wellbeing. When Sherlock told me I allowed myself to wonder for one brief moment how it would feel to confess my attraction. Would Gregory allow me to take him to bed? I find myself wondering these things and I feel guilty. Gregory is in pain and I shouldn’t be thinking selfish thoughts. He has never given any indication he feels anything for me other than annoyed tolerance. If it wasn’t for his acquaintance with Sherlock, Gregory would not even make conversation with me, let alone entertain the idea of a relationship. It’s been many years since I have found myself captivated and it’s overwhelming, but nothing can come of it.’_

#

Greg knew what was coming next because he remembered that time in his life so vividly. But it still hurt. The entries for two days in late December were short.

#

_‘I kissed Gregory.’_

_#_

That day was still burned in his mind. He had been yelling at Mycroft and he had leaned right in close to the man’s face, so close he could feel Mycroft’s breath against his cheek, and he realised for the first time how amazing Mycroft smelled, and how his eyes were the exact colour of a thunderstorm, and he felt a throb of lust he hadn’t felt in a long time. And Mycroft must have read it in his expression and the way Greg’s words suddenly faltered because then Mycroft was kissing him. He’d allowed himself to react for just a second before pulling back and storming out of Mycroft’s office without a word.

He hadn’t spoken to or seen the other man for several weeks until the next entry.

#

_‘Gregory has gone back to his wife.’_

#

Greg skimmed the following pages, tales of Sherlock’s exploits with The Woman, the search across London for him, and then, Christmas day, was the post he was looking for.

#

_‘Gregory came to my office last night. I’m afraid I was rather dismissive of him even though I could see that it pained him. His wife is cheating again, I’m certain from Gregory’s expression that Sherlock has informed him of that fact. I hope he was kind when he divulged, but I doubt it. Gregory and I argued about my brother, Gregory is worried about him, although that worry is misplaced, there are few incidents that Sherlock gets himself into that he cannot get himself out of again.’_

At this stage Mycroft skipped a line, and in a different pen, written much later that same Christmas day, continued.

_‘Gregory is asleep beside me, naked and dishevelled. The sheets smell of sex and sweat. I dread him waking. I am disinclined to let him leave. It’s too much to allow myself to think I may be permitted to keep him, but for now he is sprawled across the bed, one arm thrown above his head. He looks comfortable and at ease, like he’s shared this bed a hundred times before. He is a remarkably handsome man, comfortable in his body, easy to smile, big, expressive gestures. During sex he was gentle, careful, but confident. I don’t want him to wake up. I don’t want to go back to being someone he deals with because he has to. I want to be someone he wants to spend time with. I think my fondness is verging worrying close to unhealthy.’_

_#_

The next entry was from the following day, just hours after the last.

‘ _I woke alone and thought Gregory had stolen away ashamed. But I found him in the kitchen making toast. He smiled and poured me coffee. It was awful. And the toast was burned. But it didn’t matter because Gregory made it.’_

_#_

The entries carried on, often short recounts of dinners, or arguments. Accounts of sex that had Greg biting his lip at the memories of those early days. As the dates moved on he realised some of the events that were coming up, some of which he and Mycroft had barely talked about at the time.

#

_‘Gregory was stabbed at work. The hospital called me. Until that moment I was unaware that he’d listed me as his emergency contact. The weight of that responsibility, of being someone Gregory relies on, has forced me to confront a fact that I have been trying to supress for a long time. My feelings have moved beyond infatuation and I am very much in love with him. This is a realisation which terrifies me. I have left him at the hospital only to arrange space for him. I refuse to permit him to recover in his flat so I will be bring him here. I worry that I will not be able to let him leave again._

_#_

And he hadn’t. Greg had spent several weeks recovering at Mycroft’s home and somehow over that time it became there home and he never spent another night in his old flat. He smiled at the memory of how smoothly Mycroft had engineered the move so Greg hadn’t even realised he’d been moved in. But then, what Mycroft Holmes wants, he gets.

Another entry he knew was coming and he was dreading it. Almost a year later were the lost three weeks when Mycroft had disappeared from his hotel room in Brussels during a conference and wasn’t seen again for three weeks. Mycroft had refused to talk about it afterwards and Greg could see how it had affected him so he hadn’t pushed it, but those three weeks, not knowing where Mycroft was, had been the worst three weeks of his life.

With his heart thumping in his chest he turned the page to that date. And then to the next day, and the next, until he had turned twenty two blank pages until the day after he’d gotten the call to say that Mycroft and the other two missing agents had been located and were on their way to hospital via helicopter. Mycroft had been dehydrated and exhausted but had signed himself out the following day. The entry from the day he arrived home was written in a shaky hand and was a mere seven words long.

And they broke Greg’s heart.

#

_I am safe for Gregory is here._

#

Greg couldn’t read any more. He wiped his hand across his eyes and closed the book. Standing up he was aware of his heart pounding and his breath coming in shallow gasps as he stumbled to Mycroft’s study, where he found the other man staring out the window, a glass of scotch in his hand.

Without a word he crossed the room and set the book down on Myroft’s desk.

The politician turned to him, his expression that of someone terrified and broken. Greg tried to speak but he couldn’t, all he could do was take Mycroft’s face in his hands and kiss him over and over until they finally had to break apart. Greg rested his forehead against Myrcofts until he could breathe again.

‘I’m sorry for the things I said. I…I had no idea you felt those things.’

‘Gregory, I-‘

‘You don’t have to say it,’ Greg said softly, and he realised that he didn’t need to hear Mycroft say the words. He’d thought for years that if Mycroft couldn’t say them then he didn’t feel them. But he knew now that Mycroft did love him.

‘Are you still leaving?’

Greg shook his head, ‘Never.’

The sound that came from Mycroft was almost a sob and Greg pulled him close, breathing in the scent of Mycroft’s skin, just needing to be close to him. He knew then that he’d never question again how Mycroft felt. And he knew that he could never leave someone who loved him as much as the man in his arms.


End file.
